


hello my old heart

by call_me_steve



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (again), (it works), Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Chapter 2 Tags:, Chapter 3 tags:, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Field Trip, Fluff, Gen, Good Parent Talia al Ghul, He Loves His Children and You Can't Change My Mind, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kind of Implied Racism, Kinda, Mother-Son Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Platonic Relationships, Ra's is NOT a good man, SO, a tiny little itty bitty dash of hurt/comfort i guess, and Damian learns Some Stuff, bruce and dami bond too, bruce is a good dad too okay, h e i s, happy valentines day, i guess, it's cute okay, it's honestly just cute fluff, like a line or two, literally just a fic about damian and talia bonding on a field trip, the mom and son duo have some Conversations, they don't really talk even though they prob should
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22638256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/call_me_steve/pseuds/call_me_steve
Summary: "Field trips just so happened to be the bane of Damian’s existence.He’d attempted to bribe Father to be one of the chaperones on the trip. As good for publicity as it would have been, Father was too busy to join Damian.So, Damian would be alone. Alone among over thirty of his classmates, alone among three other chaperones that Damian’s never met and his idiotic teacher who mispronounces everything other than the Wayne part of his name."Then something unexpected happens when Talia al Ghul turns up.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Damian Wayne
Comments: 32
Kudos: 403





	1. it's been so long

**Author's Note:**

> some good mom talia content because it's what we all deserve. (comment, kudo, etc. i love hearing feedback from y'all.
> 
> tumblr: [potato-reblob](https://potato-reblob.tumblr.com/)

“I’m not going,” Damian announces, standing in the doorway of the manor. “I won’t go on the field trip, I fear I feel faint.” 

His father looks down at him with an amused smile, as if Damian were just a silly little _child._ “If you feel faint, then surely you can’t go on patrol later?” Father reaches out and presses the back of his hand to Damian’s forehead for show, withdrawing with a hum. “Your forehead feels normal.” 

Damian only grits his teeth in response. 

“Damian, I know you don’t want to go, but we all have to do things that we don’t want to do,” Father explains, crouching down to Damian’s pitifully lacking height. “I promised that if you went on this trip and didn’t make a scene, you wouldn’t have to go to the gala this weekend.” 

He had, that was true. Still, choosing between the gala and the field trip was like picking what kind of death you wanted. Being beaten to death or slowly being crushed? Get set on fire or fall to your doom? 

In the end, his classmates seemed like the lesser evil. At least _they_ wouldn’t pinch his cheeks and try to sway his father with good looks. 

Even so, field trips just so happened to be the bane of Damian’s existence. 

He _loathed_ having to spend time with his moronic so-called _peers_ on a daily basis, and to have to be thrown into a small bus with the lot of them for an hour for some educational trip was going to test Damian’s already limited patience. Of course, he’d attempted to make the whole thing a little more survive-able by bribing Father- (Grayson, the bumbling fool, had been his first choice, but he’d been too busy to catch and too swamped to ask)- to accompany him on the trip. As good for publicity as it would have been, Father, too, was too busy to join Damian. 

And as such, Damian would be alone. Alone amongst over thirty of his classmates, alone amongst three other chaperones that Damian’s never met and his idiotic teacher who mispronounces everything other than the _Wayne_ part of his name. 

His fists tighten on his backpack straps as he turns around, marching to the car like a man on a mission. Pennyworth wouldn’t be taking him today, no, instead it’d be a nameless driver Damian did not know, some man in a sharp suit that wouldn’t understand it if Damian were to act up. 

“I love you, Damian,” his father calls, from the steps. “Please, at least _try_ to have a good time?”

Damian doesn’t return the sentiment as he slips into the car. He settles into the back and sets his backpack onto his lap, tugging it close to his chest. The driver drives off without too much fanfare, not even sparing Damian a word as they speed off down the road. 

The school comes into view far too soon. Damian gets out of the car as soon as the driver parks and there’s no exchange of goodbyes. 

There’s no exchange of _hellos_ once Damian’s out of the car, either. Children swarm around him, clearing what to him feels like a huge circle around him. It’s better this way, at least. These children are inferior to him in every way. He doesn’t need- nor _want-_ to associate himself with them. 

He continues up the stairs and carries himself to the classroom, shoulders pulled in to make his journey easier. The halls are chock full of loud children, who rush through the corridors and shove into Damian, whether it be on accident or whether it be on purpose. Damian doesn’t retaliate to any of it. He won’t dare, not since his father’s wrath is at stake. He’s got to keep up appearances in public, same as Father has too. 

His classmate is already packed with his class- all twenty kids, swarming the chaperones. Damian sneaks a look over, setting his backpack by his desk. The teacher- Mr. Owens, an old man with grey hair and a wrinkling face- is talking to the only chaperone not swarmed, blocking them from view. 

The other two- one a tall, broad shouldered man, and the other a small and plump woman with round cheeks and sparkling eyes- look enough like their kids for Damian to tell who they are- that, and their children didn’t stop bragging about how their parents were going to join them. 

The tall man- Mr. Thompson’s child, a snotty nosed brat with a hard glare and a rude tongue, was too busy swinging from his father’s arm to think about saying anything to Damian when he caught sight of him. That was good, Damian didn’t need anyone to cause trouble before they even embarked on the field trip. He knew that Mr. Thompson was divorced, knew that the man had a temper that he’d never dare let out on his child. Instead, he let it out on those around him- or so Jimmy- his son- would say. 

The woman’s child, Cindy Dale, was about as sweet as sweet could be. It was sickening to watch, sickening to see her go around with her stupid smile. He’d told her once that he didn’t like how she’d needlessly chirp after everyone with unneeded worries. She’d cried, gotten him in trouble, then decided with her mother that they didn’t actually want him to get in trouble. 

Long story short, Mrs. Dale knew Damian, so Damian avoided her near completely. Instead, he trailed towards the teacher to let him know he was present, swiftly cutting off the man’s conversation with the chaperone. 

“Owens,” he says, sharply. “When do we embark on this field trip of ours.” 

Mr. Owens, the fool, shakes his head and smiles at Damian. “Eight o’clock sharp,” he replies, easily. Then, to the chaperone, “It’s a pleasure to have your son in my class, you know? Damian’s one of the brightest children I’ve had in years. I’ve never gotten anything short of a hundred out of this kid.” 

Wait- what? 

“I wouldn’t expect much less from my heart,” the chaperone replies, voice familiar, melodic. It rings in his ear, paired with bad people and bad memories, fills up his heart and swarms his mind, bringing an odd feeling of safety that he hasn’t felt in too long. “His grandfather had him home-schooled, before he came to live with Bruce.” 

Damian freezes in his spot, pretending like his eyes aren’t watering. They shift over the woman before him, drinking her entire frame in as his hands shake. He hasn’t seen her in so, so long. He hasn’t- 

She’s dressed in a loose white blouse, covered in ruffles and sheer silk, and clean, pressed slacks. There’s not a single wrinkle or crease not meant to be there, not a single hair is out of place in her high ponytail. Her eyes, just as green as Damian’s own, shine with something he’s never _seen_ in them. Grandfather never allowed them to carry a sheen of tears in their eyes, not when they lived under his rule. 

“I’ll leave you to it, Ms. al Ghul,” Mr. Owens says. “I’ve other chaperones to talk to, you know.” 

“Of course,” Mother says. “Thank you for having me here.” 

Mr. Owens nods, sending Damian one last smile before he’s off, being pulled in by Mrs. Dale’s bright, infectious laugh. He leaves Damian alone, but this time, he’s not _alone-_ alone. He’s got his mother, right here beside him for the first time in ages. 

“My adored. It’s been too long since I’ve last seen you. You’ve grown so tall.” 

“I have not,” Damian replies, and he can’t help but keep his voice sharp, to keep it from wavering. “I’m no taller than when we last saw each other.” 

She smiles at him, something rare, soft. “Your grandfather doesn’t know I’m here,” she assures, somehow _knowing_ Damian’s fears. “Actually, it was Beloved who decided I should come here. He- Your father has been treating you well, hasn’t he?” 

“He has. I- So has Grayson. They’ve all-” 

“I’m glad.” Mother reaches out for Damian, taking his face in her hand. “I’ve missed you so very much, my heart. May I-?” 

Damian ignores the shaking in his hands, the tears in his eyes, the quiver in his voice. “You may,” he says, so very feather soft. Her arms, thin and lean, wrap around him, pressing him to her chest. His head finds the crook of her neck, and there he fits like a puzzle piece, perfectly. He lets his arms wind around her shoulders, pulling himself ever closer. “I missed you too, Mother.” 

He never wants her to let him go.

He never wants this to end. 

But, like all things do, it does. At seven forty, Mother pulls back and takes Damian’s hand in hers. “Come, my heart. We have to corral your peers onto the bus, don’t we?” 

“We do,” Damian says, wiping at his eyes with his free hand. Mother, still crouching at his side, reaches up again to wipe them away, smiling at him all over again. 

They used to be such a rare thing, before. Back when they lived at Grandfather’s compound and he ruled over them with an iron fist, she’d sneak them to him when they were alone. Only away from Grandfather’s prying eyes would he find them, hidden from the Devil’s sight. Now, they feel free and true. 

His mother gently pulls him along up to Mrs. Dale. For a few minutes they indulge in idle chatter before the two women pull Mr. Thompson and Mr. Owens into it. Come seven fifty, the four adults watch the children climb up the bus steps- their own respective children hanging by their hips. 

Damian and his mother are the last duo on the bus, and as such get the seat closest to the bus driver. His mother settles into the seat closest to the window, holding up her arm so that Damian can sneak underneath it, press himself back against her side. Her arm falls over his shoulders tugging him closer. 

He closes his eyes when his mother whispers into his ear, “Get some sleep, my heart. I’ll wake you when we arrive.” 

Damian draws a sharp breath. “I love you, Mother,” he utters. 

“I love you too, my adored.”


	2. how have you been?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian and Talia spend the day at the museum on a class trip, and they share some things. 
> 
> Those things, while Damian believes them better left unsaid, help them to grow.

The museum looks different than it did, the last time Damian had come here. Last time, they’d had a photo exhibit, full of beautiful, glazed photographs. Damian’s favorite had been the one in the corner, a black and white one with a single splash of red- a woman’s umbrella, cast over her shoulder. He’d been here with Drake at the time, albeit reluctantly. Though he won’t admit it, the time was well spent. 

This time, now that he was here with mother, made his heart do a funny thing, even as he clung to her hand like the child he swore he wasn’t. The exhibit was one of un-finished sketches, of a man who died before his art came to fruition. The sketches told a story of depression, Damian thought. His classmates didn’t see it for what it was. 

Mr. Owens divided them up into groups of four. He gave Damian’s mother the smallest group- she must’ve talked to him beforehand. Talia wasn’t known for being good with children. The only reason why she was good with Damian was out of survival. That, and Damian was more like Talia than these children were. They were cut from the same cloth, weaved from threads of string of fear of his grandfather. 

Damian’s group was made of children he only slightly tolerated. Most were boisterous- a pair of girls who seemed glued at the hip, respectively named Jane and Amelia, and a boy who claimed he was the class clown, named Garret. The others were pretty quiet, Ashton and Westly, Bec and Sarah. 

Talia introduced herself to the gaggle of children with a small little smile, somewhat strained and uncomfortable. Damian’s peers introduced themselves with their own loud grins, untamed and bright. 

“What should we go see first?” she asked, feigning curiosity. She’s crouching, to match the children’s heights. To Damian, she looks completely different than the woman he grew up with, the woman that hid him away during the wee hours of the morning so they could stargaze before Grandfather sent for them. She’s out of her depth, too, Damian knows. “We can see the main exhibit, or there’s the other ones up on the second floor.” 

“I want to see the sculptures!” Amelia screeches, rocking on her heels. Damian winces, trying to contain it so his mother can’t see it. Of course, she’s always seen through him. Her smile twitches with her brow. Jane nods along with her friend. 

“Well _I_ want to see the paintings!” Westly whines. “We can see all of these boring sketches _later._ ” 

Bec, a small little thing with hazelnut eyes, says, “I’d like to see the photographs they have, of those abandoned theaters.” Their voice is low, barely piping up amongst the noise of the crowds. 

“Well, Bec,” Talia says, standing up, “I think the photographs sound like a very good place to start. Then we’ll go around the top floor and look at the exhibits as they come, alright?” 

Damian stares up at his mother as Bec beams to his right, (though, Westly groans over the decision). Talia and Damian both knew that those who were weak didn’t last in their world- certainly not in Gotham, and never with Grandfather. Bec was the definition of weak, lacking in height and confidence and everything in between. Sure, Damian could admit that Bec was a brilliant child. Not as smart as Damian himself, but Bec was racking up A’s all over the place. Bec would go places in the future, if they’d ever get past the problem with their confidence. 

“Come, my adored. Children. We should get there before your other classmates decide they’ll follow along with our plan.” 

One of the children- Garret- makes a face at _my adored._ Damian drops back just enough to hear what Garret has to say while still sticking beside his mother. “How come your mother speaks so _weirdly?_ ” he whispers. His voice isn’t low enough to escape Talia’s ears, but Talia doesn’t say a word as she shoos Ashton and Westly ahead of her. 

“Whatever do you mean, _Smith?_ ” Damian snarks. 

“You and her, you both talk really weirdly!” Garret continued. “Like, you call Mr. Owens _Owens_ and you call me _Smith_ and- and your mother calls you _my adored._ Why do you all speak really weirdly?” 

Once the other children are rushing up the stairs, Talia turns around, meeting Garret’s eyes. “It’s a little rude to ask why someone speaks differently than you do,” his mother says, allowing her rough accent to slip through the cracks. 

Both Damian and her were born with the accents, having grown by the Middle East, in the deserts, but they’d been trained out of them to fit in better. Their skin was an automatic outlier already, so they’d learned to have an American accent lie thick on their tongues. 

“Damian and I,” she continued, “have a different upbringing than you had. It’s the same as your classmates, they’ve all been raised differently than you had, haven’t they?” 

“I guess,” Garret utters. “Can we see the photographs now?” 

“We can. Hurry up now. We have to regroup for lunch, before we cross the street for the second part of the field trip.” 

She stays behind with Damian as they watch the kid scramble up the stairs, before her soft facial expression falls flat. It morphs into something like apprehension. “Do you-” Mother pauses, swaying minutely on her feet. She wavers in her words, something Damian’s never seen her do. “Do you have to deal with that regularly?” 

Of course she picked up on the hidden meaning behind an innocent question. Damian had too- has been, since the day he stepped foot in that wretched school. Kids didn’t have a full grasp on racism, not really, at this age, but it wasn’t like it wasn’t _there._

“Not from Garret, no,” Damian replies. “Thompson- _Jimmy_ Thompson, though. He-” Damian cuts himself off too. This isn’t anything he’s ever notified Father of. Sure, he’d explained it off-handedly to Grayson once or twice. Not belonging was something both he and his brothers knew perfectly well- something they learned before any other skill. Should he really let his mother know, though? 

“Damian,” she says, softly, when Damian doesn’t speak up again. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. Why don’t we talk about something- _different?_ ” She gestures up the stairs, where Damian’s classmates clutter together, waiting for their chaperone to signal for them to swarm the photo exhibit. “How’s Grayson doing?” 

Not one to miss an opportunity, Damian swings from the awkwardness of the previous topic and delves into a story of the most recent Sunday morning he’d spent with his eldest brother- up until Todd crashed it and Drake invited himself over. He takes the spotlight of the conversation, a rare thing for him. He’d normally always be the one asking his mother for stories, whether it be on his name or a plethora of other things. Now, it seemed, Damian had more to offer than his mother did. 

As he speaks, he ignores how stilted it feels. Their relationship might have progressed bounds when Ra’s wasn’t looking over their shoulders, but without him, they weren’t really anything at all. 

Now, though, Damian believes, they’re finally free to _try._

Time passes. They run through the exhibits with time to spare, both mother and son taking the trip seriously as the children before them _ooh_ and _ahh_ at everything they see. Lunch comes and go, and after that, they cross the street to the next part of the trip. For Damian, it passes in a blur of black and white, of little splashes of color and hands-on work. 

The instructors have them draw pictures. Mother, funnily enough, tries to draw Damian. She does well, but not as well as he’d expect from a member of the League. To possibly show her up, he sketches out her own person by his father’s and his’ side and hides it away before she can see it, shoving it deep into his coat pocket, when he finds himself tempted to add Grayson to the mix too. 

It’s after all of that when Damian finds the guts to ask his mother a question, one that had been clawing at his throat and rotting in his stomach. He and Talia sit on the sidelines of the museum’s lobby, watching the class wind down as they get ready for the long return trip back to the school. The buses hadn’t shown up yet, so Damian figures he has time to kill and pressing matters to discuss.

He sucks in a deep breath before he says, “How is Grandfather doing these days?” His voice is quiet, solid enough that his mother can’t hear how much it’s shaking. They both know that he really asked, _What is he up to, these days?,_ but it’s not like either of them are going to comment on it. 

His mother blinks, a small little thing- her own version of owlishly. “I’d have thought you wouldn’t have wanted to talk of him,” she replies, instead of answering. Everything that Grayson had ever taught him tells Damian of her underlying message- _I didn’t want to talk about Ra’s. Not here._

If he could take back the question, knowing that, he would.

(He can’t.) 

“Father has grown angry with the world in your absence,” she explains, words growing clipped and formal. Damian knows what that means, too. His words form into the same barbed wire fences when he feels like he’s on the defensive, when he’s talking of something that makes his emotions go haywire and he’s trying to hide it. Weakness, in the League, was not tolerated. Damian and his mother know that all too well. “He’s angry at your father for taking you in. He’s angry at _me_ for letting you go.” 

Her fists clench in her lap. Damian imagines the bruises she’d probably hidden under makeup for weeks, of hand-prints on her wrists that she’d probably covered up with long sleeves. When Grandfather was angry, it meant punishment, whether it be your fault or not. 

“He’d been grooming you, my heart,” Mother says, suddenly. 

“To- To be his heir.” 

“To be his _body._ ” 

Damian can’t help it when his eyes go wide, alarmed by her statement. “What do you mean by- _to be his body?”_

“He wished to possess your body for his own,” she explains. She stares down at her hands, so she doesn’t have to look at Damian. Looking would mean presenting further weakness. “I would- I would _never_ have let him do that to you. You know that, don’t you, Damian?” 

Softly, he utters, “I do.” 

His mother’s head flies up suddenly, her eyes on him. She moves her hands to take his, holding them tightly. “You are more important than _anything_ in the world to me. I only gave you away because I knew that your father was safer to be with than the League and I would be. Training was only a cover- otherwise Father would have never let you leave-” 

“He dunked you in the _pit_ for that!” Damian can’t help but shout, body moving faster than his mind can keep up with. He stands, abruptly, but knows that he hasn’t attracted the attention of the adults behind him. 

His mother looks at him, really _looks,_ gleaming green eyes a mirror image of Damian’s own. “And I killed you because of it.”

While his first instinct is to panic- _Heretic, sword, clone, hurt hurthurthurthurt-_ his second to cry out for her never to speak of that again, he only blinks back his tears. “That wasn’t your _fault,_ Mother.” 

“I placed the bounty on your head. I created a clone of you. That clone _killed_ you.” 

“That wasn’t _you!_ ” 

“And how do you _know?”_ his mother snaps, loudly. 

Damian flinches back at her tone, the memory of Grandfather too sharp in her presence. Mother curls back too, guilt flashing over her face before she squishes it down. Ra’s number one rule had been beat into them both enough to control her even here. “I did not mean to yell,” she grits out. “I’m sorry.” 

Minutes pass. Silence wraps around Damian’s throat and threatens to squeeze. 

“I-” Mother looks up again, quickly, when Damian speaks. “I know because you love me. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, risking your own well-being over me.” 

They both know what her punishment will be, if she happens to be caught by Ra’s. Damian is a traitor to the al Ghuls. To be seen with him would be akin to treason. 

“You know, my heart, the _hardest_ thing I’ve ever done was let you leave with your father. All this time spent not knowing how you are- it’s- it’s been hard.” This time, she _lets_ her words shake. She _lets_ Damian hear it. “I do love you, Damian.” 

“I love you too,” Damian says back. “I really, really do.” 

Mr. Owens says something, then, something that Damian doesn’t catch. His mother does, because it pulls her to her feet, before she extends her hand to Damian. “One more bus ride,” she says, and it sounds like goodbye. 

“One more bus ride,” Damian agrees. 

His is a see-you-soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay! i got chapter two up. chapter three will be up sometime next week since i've been absolutely SWAMPED with work. it's still in the works, but it's gonna be a bit more fluffy than this one.


	3. set your old heart free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian has to speak with Father. It's urgent. (It's not.)

Father is nowhere to be seen when the driver drops Damian off at home. As expected, neither is Pennyworth. Drake is missing too, both of them caught up in prior plans. That means Damian has the entire manor to himself as he waits for patrol to roll around. It’s enough time to mull over everything that happened on his field trip today. 

Especially with everything his mother said, from Ra’s wanting to take over Damian’s  _ body  _ to what she said about Father. It’d been his idea she come on the trip, apparently. That would suggest that Father had an ulterior motive when he told Damian no- it would also mean he’d reached out to Grayson as a precaution. It was a good thing that Damian hadn’t asked him, then. Grayson’s a  _ terrible _ liar and he certainly would’ve ruined Father’s sneaky plan. 

Regardless of what Father had to do- (how  _ did _ he get in touch with Mother?)- to get Talia to come, Damian couldn’t let this slide and act  _ ungrateful _ for it. 

With that in mind, Damian shoots off towards the kitchen. He pours water into the kettle, setting it on the stove and turning it on all the way. He has to stand on his tip-toes to reach the dial on the stove, which makes him grit his teeth. This…  _ vertically challenged… _ life wasn’t the greatest. Regardless, even though Pennyworth isn’t around, Damian knows enough about the kitchen to make his father some tea. 

He has a steaming cup on the counter for himself in minutes, leaving the water on the stove to re-boil a little longer, until he hears his father come walking through the hall. The tea will be no good cold. Instead, it’ll just be another flat thank you. 

Damian’s real sick of those. 

He hoists himself up onto the counter to slowly sip at his, keeping distance from the stove just in case. He won’t dare get himself accidentally burned because he was too stupid to pay attention to those kinds of things. With his ankles crossed, he waits, taking slow sips and keeping a tight grip on his cup. He’d opted for a mug, for his tea, since he was using the little bags that Grayson had, stored away in the cupboards for an easy drink, rather than the actual china cups themselves. 

At least the mug feels more solid than a fragile little china cup, he thinks, before his mind begins to drift once more. 

Finally, once he decides to screw it and just set his father out a mug, he hears Father’s heavy footfalls start up, just after the sharp slam of the front doors. Father comes, peering around the doorway, before Damian can drop down to the ground. His face softens at the scene of his son, still clad in his school uniform, waiting for him. 

“Father,” Damian greets, aborting his movement. He supposes Father can help himself. “You’re just in time for patrol.” 

He really is. It’s just nearing seven, the perfect time to come up with a plan of action for the night and fit in some warmups and a small spar or so before they hit the city. Once they’re out and about, he’ll bring up the whole Talia thing. He’ll be able to slip away once the conversation is done, that way, and completely avoid the awkwardness of it all. Plus, Damian’s near certain it’ll be a slow night, so it’s not like he’ll get into trouble if he  _ does _ run off.

“That’s good, then,” Father says, voice rumbley and low, “but Dick and Tim are going to be covering patrol tonight.” He reaches for the kettle on the stove and pours himself a boiling cup, taking the tea bag that Damian hands over. “Have you had dinner yet?” 

Damian’s brows crease in confusion. “No. I’ve made tea. I-” His words tumble ungracefully from his lips, losing meaning where he can’t quite piece them together. 

“Thank you for that,” Father continues. He sips his cup without waiting for it to cool, before raising the cup in some kind of pseudo-toast. He settles against the counter, beside where Damian sits, so close that the two are almost shoulder to shoulder. “I figure we can just order in, then. I’m no good in the kitchen, you know. Then, what do you say about a movie?” 

“But-” Something isn’t clicking in his head. “Patrol.” 

Father smiles at him, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. “We’ve both had long and busy days, haven’t we? What about Thai food?” 

“That- Thai is  _ fine, _ but- You have a duty to the  _ city, _ Father. Batman can’t leave Gotham alone for the night.” 

“That’s what your  _ brothers _ are out for. The two have been nagging me to let them go alone for a while anyway” -that shouldn’t sting, but for some reason, it does- “so there’s no harm done,” Father explains, patiently. “Have you ever seen Walter Mitty? It’s not a very popular film, but I think you’d probably like it.” 

“No, I haven’t-” 

“Wonderful.” 

Father stares at him like he expects Damian to continue protesting, but Damian lets his mouth shut with an audible click. He contemplates a moment more. His plan will need adjusting, if Father’s serious about this, though- 

Damian finds he doesn’t understand the reasoning behind staying home. 

“Go upstairs and change. I’ll get everything down here situated,” his father near orders, when Damian doesn’t make a sound. “Something comfy. We aren’t going out at all.” 

Damian tries to glare up at his Father once he sets down his tea, scooting off of the counter and landing on his feet with a noiseless  _ thump. _ No matter how off his game he feels, he’s still got something. “Fine,” he harrumphs, as if he had a say in the matter. “I want Italian.” 

“Pasta?” Father quirks a brow. 

“Pizza.” 

His father snorts, something odd to hear and weird to see. When his father does it, his body loosens, losing it’s tension, a loud chuckle escaping his lips. His eyes twinkle, like Damian’s just told him some kind of funny joke. 

Damian detours upstairs like he was supposed to do, making a pit stop to Grayson’s room before his own. He tugs off his blazer and his white button up shirt, having long ago ditched his tie. He crawls up onto Grayon’s dresser and pulls out the first sweatshirt that his fingers grab. It’s a Nightwing hoodie, ironically enough. Though, the irony mostly escapes Damian in favor of him tugging it on, letting the entire thing swallow him up. It passes his waist and nearly falls to his knees, the sleeves bypassing his hands all together. He rolls them up and trudges on to his own room, leaving his uniform behind. 

The pants are exchanged for loose fitting sweatpants, a drastic change from his black school slacks, cleaned and pressed by Pennyworth last night. These sweatpants have paint splatters on the knees, a hole on the hem. Grayson had gotten them for him, long, long ago. 

He pulls off his socks and wiggles his toes, feeling the cool, fluffy texture of the rug beneath his feet. 

It doesn’t make any  _ sense _ not to go on patrol. It wasn’t like Damian’s day was taxing. Instead, he feels as lively as ever. Sure, he supposes that perhaps  _ Father’s  _ day could have been long, but that wouldn’t explain his good spirits and easy tone. If anything, after a hard day, Father would  _ prefer _ to be out on Gotham’s grimy streets. 

Something was definitely amiss.

He’d deal with that once he told his Father,  _ properly, _ that he was grateful, though. 

He rushes downstairs in time to catch the pizza man ringing the doorbell, grabbing Father’s wallet from the jacket hanging by the door. He shouts at his father to remain seated, handing the man- more of a boy- almost fifty dollars in total for the two pizzas. Then, he finds his way to the den, where Father sits, reclined in his chair. The TV beams brightly, the paused screen of  _ Walter Mitty’s _ opening scene ready to play. 

Carefully watching his step, Damian drops the pizzas onto the coffee table with a click of his tongue. Once his hands are free, he turns to his father.

Before letting him get up, Damian switches course, ignoring the couch to crawl over the arms of the chair and to plop down onto his father’s lap. As hyper aware as he is about it- it’s a childish thing that  _ little _ children would do, and Damian is no  _ child, _ nor is he a  _ little _ one- it’s completely necessary. He needs Father in one place what he’s going to say.

“Father,” he greets, again. 

“Damian,” Father says, right back. He’s got a smile on his face that’s too soft for the Batman. Damian doesn’t think he can quite read what lies in it’s creases. 

Damian juts up his chin, holding it high as he regards his father. “Mother told me what you did. How you got in contact with her, just so she’d be the chaperone to my field trip.” 

“Ahh,” his father breathes out. “She came?” 

“She did.” 

“I’m glad.” Damian side-eyes him. It doesn’t really seem like Father’s taking the conversation as seriously as he should be. So, Damian says quiet, waiting for Father to continue. Continue he does, once he realizes Damian isn’t really amused. “How did it go?” 

Damian smiles at the question, quickly recounts the hours spent by his mother’s side. He leaves out Jimmy and Thompson, but makes sure to talk about how Mrs. Dale seemed to hit it off with Mother. He doesn’t talk about the whole thing with Ra’s and possessing Damian’s body, either. That’s a conversation for another night, a different one, where he knows that it won’t ruin the mood. 

“They had us drawing pictures after lunch. Mother was quite abysmal at it. I, however, think I did a splendid job,” he finishes. 

“What did you draw?” Father asks. 

“It’s- I-” He thinks of his blazer upstairs, of the paper carelessly shoved into his pocket. His cheeks go red at the thought of showing it to Father. “It’s upstairs,” he says, embarrassed. 

Father quirks his brows again, curious over Damian’s display of sheepishness. “Can I see it?” 

“Not now.”  _ Not ever.  _ “We’re watching a movie.” 

“Of course.” 

When Damian settles back against his father’s chest, Father presses play and lets the TV roar to life. Father wraps his arms around Damian’s waist, holding him close enough that if Damian were to want to jump up, he probably wouldn’t be able to without hitting Father. Not that Damian really wanted to move. He was content where he was, content watching this stupid movie of this man who- quite frankly- daydreamed the weirdest things. 

Even though he didn’t have a mother in his life all of the time, he knew that he still had someone beside him who cared about him, who loved him. Father, despite their numerous differences and squabbles, was in his corner, always, in the end. Why else would he have gone through the trouble of locating Mother? Why else would he have decided to skip out on spending time with Damian for Talia to go in his stead? 

“Thank you, Father,” Damian whispers, almost half an hour into the movie. 

Father tugs him ever closer, hand rising up to card through his hair. “Of course, Damian.” A beat passes. Then, “I love you.” 

This time, Damian returns it, words careful and true. 

“I love you too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentines day, guys. i'm giving you this chapter pretty early in hindsight, but it's finished and i've gotta get started on the next chapter of i am we lmao. 
> 
> hope you liked the bruce-dami bonding, and hope u all comment !
> 
> (make sure to tell the ppl who mean a lot to you that you love them, it's important. v day isn't just for romance, y'know?)


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